Coffin
by Materioptikon
Summary: In dreams, two monsters meet. In dreams, one is redeemed. Oneshot.


Disclaimer: Own neither of these two gentlemen, nor their respective universes. Both trademarked to their respective creators, FFVII to Square-Enix and the man in red to Kohta Hirano.

P.D. The Pillar of Severity is a part of the Sephirot, the Tree of Life, representing three virtues: Binah, Gevurah and Hod (Understanding, Severity or Strength and Splendor or Glory).

Review, please. And any Lucrecia lovers, not sure this is your cup of tea.

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A coffin is not the best place to sleep. After all, it was not designed for the living to rest.

Seldom is the coffin that includes any other concession to humans than a pillow.

It carries an echo that makes a whisper resonate for what the mind feels as hours.

It restrains movement, and the fabrics that line its walls can make an inferno of it.

Still, a coffin has valuable redeeming qualities. For starters, it's quiet.

You can sleep in peace. That's what it was made for.

It's fresh if it is left in a good place.

It's dark. Beautiful, simple black. Nobody bothers you. Well, _almost_ nobody.

In a basement with thin light shafts barely illuminating its rooms, a small necropolis is assembled. Rows upon rows of coffins; derelict and pristine, crude and exquisite, empty and occupied. Skeletons of varied size, species and age line the granite walls of the chamber. Iron chains, rusted with age and wear detain in death what remains of the playthings of a sickened mind, who in a mad pursuit to reach the forbidden fruit of the Tree of the Science of Good and Evil, built a stairway of corpses, tempted by the ghost of a snake that had annihilated all those who had dared touch its sin-drenched flesh. An inscription has been crudely carved in the lintel of the single door, bearing three words:

_-Facilus Discernus Nihilo-_

The road to nothingness is easy. And Vincent Valentine could not agree more.

In dreams, he only sees a barren land, a land at whose side even the Midgarian wastelands appear to brim with life. From the gray sands, only black, fossilized trees rise. A black sun, shining with cold light, dimly shines in the sky above, as the roar of a lifeless sea echoes in the horizon. The only dabs of color are the vivid blood-red of his cloak and eyes and the dulled golden gauntlet adorning his arm. Valentine is a perfect lucid dreamer, but he sees no point in conjuring up ghosts of the past he knows will fade away with the blink of an eye. Nor does he see the point in adding color or life to a fake reality that crashes and fades with the same alacrity. He only creates the illusion of a world to avoid the concept of an utterly empty void.

So he reads.

Whatever books are ingrained in his memory appear now to him, and he selects one volume. Under the shade of one of the dead trees, he flips through the pages of poetry.

And then he sees something in the horizon.

Who might it be? Some of his friends occasionally pop up in this lifeless world, all of them attempting to convince him to live his life, phantom shades he subconsciously calls forth in vain efforts to purge his own guilt.

None has succeeded, either in dreams or in reality.

At the distance, he sees a flaming blood-red overcoat, buffeted by an unseen breeze. Valentine frowns; he does not remember anybody like the approaching man. With his enhanced senses, he can perfectly hear heartbeats, see the life auras of those around him, smell the swirls of dying breaths leaving the throat, even those in his dreams.

And oddly enough, this man has neither of these things.

"_He isn't a phantom. He is coming. He wants to talk to me."_

At last, the being stops in front of Valentine as the poetry finally ends. Valentine closes the book and gives the man a good look. He is sporting a charcoal black suit, with heavy boots, the, oh, so distinguishable, overcoat, and a most curious ribbon tie. In his head he wears a fedora of the same red, and his eyes are covered by huge amber-tinted glasses.

The man, unbidden, leans against the tree, and smiles. Valentine knows that smile.

The man is sad.

-What has been done to you, that even in dreams you chain yourself to a prison of darkness, in an empty world? Even the undead have more pleasant dreams.

Valentine shoots him a look and asks back:

-What do you know?

The man's smirk is now genuine.

-I am a Nosferatu. You are not. And yet, whatever experiments were carried upon you, even though your demons have been exorcized, your blood is still tainted with the stain of death. Your soul is strong, yet it is like you have built your strength in solitude rather than numbers. Your heart is shrouded in an unnatural darkness, even for a nightwalker.

Valentine sighs and prepares for a monologue that he has repeated far too many times.

-Have you ever loved, Nosferatu?

The Monster of Monsters' smile grows as he nods.

-I have loved many things. Two women. One God. Only one of them did not betray me.

Vincent's brow arches. This was not what he expected.

-Was it one of the women?

The vampire assents.

-She is indeed a Lady of Iron, a Virgin of Steel, the Pillar of Severity wrought in flesh. A worthy heir of the power vested upon her. I trust her to wait faithfully until my return, so we can finally be together as equals.

-And the others?

The vampire takes off his glasses and hat, which fade into the oblivion of the dream, and laconically answers:

-I lived a life for God. I was His madman, His twisted puppet, believing that by offering all I had to give-my kingdom, my servants, my life even-God would come. But then, I was stripped of everything; my homeland was soaked in the blood of her subjects and my people knew nothing but sorrow and misery. I was nearly executed. I had done all God had asked me to, and in return He turned His back upon me. I then repaid Him in kind, turning my back upon Him, and casting a shadow on His precious Earth.

The vampire sighs and keeps talking, with a perfect, slightly monotone cadence:

-The first woman I truly chose was another's. At the moment I attempted to seduce her I was full of bully brashness, believing I was at the heights of my power, that I could vanquish any enemy, the world and God Himself if necessary. It took a group of humans to humble and chain me, to remind me of what am I.

The vampire closes his fist, and for a second observes the everchanging patterns of the messages revolving around the circles of power in the back of his hands.

-You were betrayed, too?

-No.

The vampire suddenly has a feral grin.

-Oh?

-So it was, Nosferatu. I loved a woman. But that woman believed herself guilty of the death of my father. I never blamed her. Yet she believed I did. A monster ensnared her. Luring her with promises of knowledge, and appealing to her natural curiosity and ambition, he showed her Madness, pure and undiluted. And, having no idea of what she was doing, she stared it to the eye and started embracing it. And when she married him, he started treating her and their baby as experiments, cataloguing and studying them as he pumped her full of drugs and serums, giving him unnatural power and corroding his soul. It turned into a monster. A beautiful, heartless monster.

The vampire's smile had long faltered, and became one of nostalgia and regret.

-And after that?

-For all intents and purposes, she took her own life.

The man with the pentagram in his gloves gestures in understanding, but his face briefly flashes a dark gesture at the last words.

-Suicide. The way of the coward.

The words are laced with seething venom, and Vincent, while utterly infuriate with the beast, can do no less than recognize what he is dealing with.

-You must acknowledge sometimes there is no escape from the problems of life, no salvation lying beyond; sometimes taking the coward's exit is the only way.

The monster's hands now contort in a rictus of wrath. In a flash, the being raises its fist and brings it down into a rock, shattering it with the impact. He begins bellowing, and the sheer passion reflected in his voice shakes Vincent. His eyes burn with a fire he had seldom seen before, and Valentine is forced to hear every word.

-No exit, you say? Problems of life? Life in itself _is_ a problem, you filthy hybrid! Life is meant to be lived, troubles are meant to be solved, and enemies are meant to be _fought_! Retreating into the dark, whimpering to let others take care of your messes-that, in itself, is weakness not befitting a true human. Self-killing is only acceptable when you truly have no hope, when there is no longer anything that can bring you a sliver of hope, when no choice can ever be made, when you stare at the mirror and only see the Abyss. My fledging faced that. My master faced that. _I_ faced that. All of us survived. And we fought on. For what we believed. For what we wanted. For what we are.

The rage slowly ebbs, as Vincent realizes how despite the tremendous lack of empathy and crude comparisons, essentially, the Nosferatu has summed up all the truths he had attempted to cover so deeply about the woman he once loved. Slowly, Valentine acknowledges that despite the love he once bore and Lucrecia's eventual understanding and mutual feelings, part of him could not stop blaming her for cowering in the face of the lunatic who had seized her son. Instead of returning and making a single stand against the depravity of the Calamity and Her Prophet, she had chosen to deliver herself into the hands of the Planet, sealing herself into a hardened shell where now the simple and plain despondency of Vincent Valentine was the only thing keeping her from being utterly forgotten. Vincent can do nothing but shut his eyes, thinking how different it would all have been if she had done as much as return to check on him upon a certain time.

He'd have followed her to the bowels of Hell. Slowly, the thread commenced unravelling, and the snowball started to roll.

-She did not remain and fight. She never fought. She let the monster leave. She had the choice and she chose. She had me serve as her Knight and kill the Worm. She wasn't strong. She was weak. Ambitious in the extreme, but unable to cope with the consequences of that avarice. I interceded for her, challenged that madman for her sake-bought her some time with my death…and it changed nothing. She saw what was to be and still elected to go onward. I-I am sorry for her. Part of me shall always linger with her memory, what we once shared, and the gratitude for my revival, but now-she is no longer a concern of mine. For far too long have I carried that shame.

His voice briefly cracks a manic grin as, along with a despaired chuckle, he asks:

-Hell, would she even have liked how I have treated myself all these years?

The Nosferatu simply stands still, looking at the man as a part of him crumbles. He then resumes his speech, knowing full well this could be the final chance of the hybrid. He leans against the remains of the rock and speaks.

-I have walked under the moon and the stars for over five centuries, Vincent Valentine. In that time, I have made three true friends and one true love. One of which was taken from my fold and used as a weapon to try and kill me. Two of them expect my return. One betrayed everything I thought he held dear for a chance to destroy me. Those who I left behind shall avenge the dead and the dying, I know. I am lost in the weavings of the Multiverse, grasping at patterns I don't fully understand, in the fevered wish of reaching what I have forced to abandon in the wake of my defeat. But what about those you call your own? You abandon those who would follow you and drive yourself into a pit of pain, madness and fear greater than the Darkness you have beaten. Neither of us is immortal and time is not eternal, so why do you would live in a lifeless world, when your heart still beats strong, until your memory is nothing but a wisp of smoke in the gale? Like me, will you wait until the past hate drives you to be the perfect monster, to unleash the primal strength your body possesses? Are you waiting until your humanity rots and you are left a hollow shell of the man you are?

Vincent, in a flash of blind rage brought about by the terseness with which the questions have been asked, has drawn Death Penalty, and has it against the man's temple, when he hears two clicks, and sees two handguns, or rather, hand cannons, one of iron, one of silver, aimed at his heart and head.

-You're fast…

-Stagnation is what makes humans die, Vincent Valentine. Only by truly evolving, embracing what you are, can you regain the privilege of making humanity your footpath. Cast away the dead who drag you to their graves. Let past be past; never forget it, but go into the future with that knowledge. Remember we have all the time in the world, to mourn, to enjoy, to weep, to dance. There are people who await you, people who trust you, people who love you. There are few people who deserve to be called friends, and your entire group has amply proved their worth. Embrace life and leave these wastelands to wraiths and memories that need not ever resurface from their graves.

-Why do you care?

The vampire shrugs as both sheathe their weapons.

-I don't. I just wanted to see if you'd hear me out. And in a minor degree, I couldn't believe a proud nightwalker had voluntarily sealed himself to bask in his shame and guilt. Our lives are already beyond hope. Behave as what you are and not as some scared, miserable human who cries because he was shown a vision of a monster of the Abyss or because he has killed a few, worthless fools of his kin.

-Humans, monsters… I only kill monsters and foolhardy humans.

-Dogs, you mean? Meek followers vacant of will, blindly following orders to the letter because they don't know any better.

-Dogs. What an interesting concept. Well-I have killed dogs, as you call them, yes. But I keep seeing them as humans.

The vampire smiles, and this time his smile is not a deranged one, or a sad one.

It is a smile of pride.

-I have a daughter who used to think like that. Eventually, she learnt the true meaning of blood, darkness and humanity. She rejected stagnation and proved herself to be worthy of the blood of the dragon. She learnt there are lives not worthy to be saved. Lives better destroyed. Lives better never started at all.

Valentine's eyes close, as he realizes he is treading upon dangerous terrain.

-…right. But some are worthy of protection.

-So you still believe in Good? The existence of something innately deserving of hope?

-When I cease believing on it, it will be the day I truly die.

The man smiles, again with a contented smile.

He starts walking away, and turns to Vincent one last time.

-God be with you, Vincent Valentine. Leave and live.

-And may He never look in your direction, Vampire Lord. Leave and live.

The wind again roars, and the monster dives headfirst into a veritable sandstorm, fading from view. As the storm subsides, he is no longer there.

Vincent opens his eyes. Again, he lies in his coffin, undisturbed. He exits and devoutly kneels, murmuring a prayer for several departed souls, for whatever it's worth. He even briefly addresses his partners in the necropolis and his far-away, long-lost love.

-Forgive me. But I no longer have any reason to remain here. Stagnation kills.

Silently, he moves to the exit of the crypt, past the skeletons and the chains, and out of the mansion itself, taking care to seal the room. He does not look back.

And for the first time in years, Vincent Valentine lies down in the grass, reveling in the very fact he is alive, drawing breath with true vigor, staring at the stars with new eyes. Casting away the cape, he receives a fresh breeze, blowing in the direction of Nibelheim. As he sees the sun rise in the horizon, a thin smile creeps into his face.

And somewhere, a vampire chuckles to himself, trying another lead to take him home.

After all, he now is everywhere and nowhere. He just needs time to get used to it.


End file.
